


In absentia

by aguantare



Series: Sin Fronteras [14]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9336815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Leo takes a deep breath, detects hints of the cologne Neymar likes to wear. The familiarity of it pulls at something in his chest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.
> 
> Note: works in this series are meant to be read independent of each other, i.e. not all part of one canon or universe.

Neymar’s apartment is in the heart of East Los Angeles. _Panaderías_ and _carnicerías_ on every other corner. Mexican flags in windows. Murals of _la virgen_ on the brick sides of stores. Leo parks his beat-up ten-year-old Camry a few blocks down from Neymar’s building and walks back up the street, hands in his pockets. It’s mid-summer, and hot, but Leo’s lived in the City of Angels for fifteen years—he’s used to it. 

He feels vaguely awkward, using the key Neymar gave him almost five years ago to open the front door of the apartment building and step inside; every other time he’s been here, Neymar’s been here to let him in. There are a couple people loitering in the lobby, but they barely give him a second glance as he heads for the stairs. 

He finds apartment 2D down a hall and around a corner on the second floor. Reggaeton is thumping out of 2C and _musica norteña_ is blaring out of 2E. It would drive Leo crazy, but he imagines Neymar loves it, the constant pulse of activity. 

The front door opens easily, and Leo steps into the apartment. It’s suddenly quiet; the sound proofing in the building must be top-notch. Leo toes off his shoes on instinct, sets them next to the slightly disorderly line of tennis shoes and old football boots sitting to one side of the entryway. He could almost smile at that; he doubts Neymar even owns so much as a single pair of dress shoes. 

Immediately to his left is the kitchen. There’s an electric bill stuck to the fridge door with a neon green magnet. Leo detours in to grab it, makes a mental note to check with Neymar’s landlord about paying rent this month. On the counter, a bunch of bananas, a salt shaker, a box of Wheaties. On the small table in the dining area, a half-written grocery list with the word “CHEETOS!” written at the top, in big capital letters and complete with an exclamation point. Leo hesitates, then picks up the list, folds it carefully in half and puts it in his wallet. 

Further down the hall, past a closet and on the right is the bedroom. The door is half closed, and even though he’s alone, Leo feels the urge to knock before walking in. 

The room is—surprisingly—neat, almost sparse. The bed is partially made, like Neymar gave a half-hearted attempt at pulling up the covers in the morning. One of the pillows still has a slight indentation in it. Leo suspects it’s because Neymar snuck back into bed for a few extra minutes of sleep before coming to work. 

Leo takes a deep breath, detects hints of the cologne Neymar likes to wear. The familiarity of it pulls at something in his chest. He goes to the dresser, unshouldering the empty backpack he brought with him, starts to open the top drawer. Stops when his eyes catch on a lone photo, propped up against the base of a small lamp. 

He remembers the photo well. A rare day off, maybe six months after Neymar arrived. They went to Santa Monica with a few other guys from work, bought some Coronas, and spent the day on the beach. Neymar was still learning English then, along with the East L.A. version of Spanish, so Leo sat with him while the other guys chattered away and asked him, in simple, basic Spanish about Brazil. There was plenty of confusion, and liberal use of their respective phones to look up Spanish, English, and Portuguese translations, and at the time, Leo’s impression of Neymar was that he was a pretty quiet and serious kid, which turned out to be 100% wrong. But it was a good day, and before they headed home, one of their co-workers had snapped a picture of them, sitting there on beach towels, the Pier in the background, Leo with his elbows propped up on his knees, half-drunk Corona in hand, Neymar leaning back on his hands, a blue L.A. Dodgers baseball cap settled backwards on his head. 

Leo plucks the photo from its resting place, glances at the back. There’s nothing written there, but Leo wonders what it says, how much it says that this is the only photo Neymar has on display. 

After a second or two, he sets it back down, turns his attention back to the dresser.

-

Three hours later finds Leo at the federal building in downtown Los Angeles, on the other side of a desk surrounded by three panes of bulletproof glass and housing an obviously disinterested ICE officer.

“Who’s this for?” the officer asks, holding up the backpack, now full of Neymar’s clothes.

“Neymar da Silva Santos.”

“Reason?”

Leo looks down at the backpack. Saying it will just make it so much more real. He clears his throat, wills his voice to stay steady as he replies,

“He’s being deported today.”


End file.
